There are many things in my life I love. My kids, their mum, my parents, my extended family, my dear departed gran, Loch Lomond and a really good bacon sandwich. And the list is not exhaustive. Only last night I had a plate of foie gras with confit of orange that I fell head over heels in love with.
But never would I have considered using the word love in connection with Jacqueline Sharkey. In the autumn on 1981 in my Jesuit Glasgow school Sharkey was my nemesis. For a term we loathed each other. I called her hateful names and she chipped my fro
nt two teeth in an incident involving a bottle of Irn Bru and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Parents were called into Garnethill in an attempt to bring peace; there were unconfirmed sightings of Kofi Annan at one point, so fierce were Kohli/Sharkey hostilities.
We eventually agreed to keep our distance and no longer bother each other. We were never going to be acquaintances. Then we became acquaintances. But we would never become friends. Surprisingly, our acquaintance-ship developed into friendship and before long we were best friends. It was an altogether unexpected conclusion.
And what friends we became. We didn't hang out at school together: that would have been impossible. Jacquie was cool and she was the beating heart of the beautiful gang. I was trying to survive with the least fittest, the gang defined by the fact that no one else would have us. But me and The Shark spoke for hours on the phone, about everything and anything. We monopolised the home phones in days before mobiles and I don't doubt our phone bills alone made the privatisation of British Telecom a viable business opportunity.
Twenty seven years later she is a successful lawyer by day and a celebrated Irish folk singer by night. We went to law school at Glasgow together and carried our friendship into adulthood. She lives in County Galway. Her move to Ireland and my move to London temporarily suspended out connection but, thanks to the interweb, we were friends who became reunited.
She was over in London last week and we hadn't seen each other for a couple of years, hadn't spoken properly for ages. We had a lovely dinner with her and her man, the enigmatically charming Edmund. The years slipped away and I felt 13 again. It's an astonishing feeling to look across a table at someone you have known for nearly three quarters of your life, someone with whom you have so much history. I realised that I love Jacqueline Sharkey, the way two people who have known each other, been friends together for nearly 30 years, love each other. It's a groovy kind of love. And much as I love her I will never, ever allow her to forget my two chipped front teeth.
Wigtown hero driven by passion - and a bigweanI was up in Wigtown at the weekend. I didn't know that Dumfries and Galloway had such a literary town as Wigtown. The literary festival is in its tenth year and the place is an homage to the written word. I doubt there is a place in Scotland with more bookshops per head of population. And if that weren't enough there's the famous Border welcome and breathtaking scenery. I arrived at Prestwick a wee bit grumpy and very tired. A lovely man called Steve was there to meet me and a couple of other writers. I had to fly back to London the next morning on a 7am flight so was feeling anticipatory exhaustion for the next morning.
That was until Steve told me it was a two hour drive to Wigtown. I nearly crumpled. I was not best pleased and poor Steve had to deal with it. I had a right good moan about having to wake at 4am the next morning to get to the airport in enough time. Steve explained that he would be driving me the next morning. Nonetheless I grumbled away like a wee spoilt wean. That was until I realised that I was there to promote my book. Steve, who with his wife Sarah, runs the Creaking Shelf bookshop in Wigtown, was doing this for love. He was a volunteer who was willing to wake up at 3.45am on a Sunday morning to take a grumpy bugger like me back to the airport.
I realised that so much of our cultural lives is made possible by people like Steve, people who happily volunteer their time and are the lifeblood of events like the Wigtown Literary Festival. So this is for Steve: a) thanks for ferrying me about to and from the airport; b) sorry I was such a grumpy arse who behaved like a big wean; c) see you next year.
Ageing muso hits the right noteI have a friend, Kendo, who thinks he knows about music. Kendo's middle aged and thinks by keeping up to date with current musical trends he might hang on to that most slippery of qualities, his youth. And much as the inexorable passage of time will see him rendered speechless in a big chair, wearing his baffies and listening to Mantovani, there are times when he begrudgingly gets it right and I am forced to shower him with respect.
On this occasion his insistence that I purchase the new Glasvegas album has proved to be yet another visionary steer. Now I am old fashioned enough to think bands with excellent names rarely offer excellent music. History bears me out: Del Amitri, Simple Minds, Deep Purple, Girls Aloud. All mediocre names, all great musicians. Strawberry Switchblade, Get Cape Wear Cape Fly, Boyzone. All great names, rubbish music.
Glasvegas have a great name, therefore should be in the latter category. But lumme, the Weegie brogue, sung through the tears and pain is as anthemic as rock gets. Musically they remind me that I have a heart and a soul and I'm not scared to expose them to the fragile beauty of Glasvegas' sounds. Respek, Kendo.
Bus bliss is all aboutbumson seatsThursday I spent home in Glasgow. A lovely October morning, crisp and cold. I walked my nieces and nephew to schools and nurseries, explaining to Ruby the beauty of cold, sunny Glasgow mornings. I was working in town and had time to kill. I decided to hop on the 44 bus into Sauchiehall Street, for old time's sake.
I used to travel on the 44 on a daily basis when I was at school and university. Much as buses and routes and the city have changed, it's always braw to be back on the top deck travelling through the West End. The only thing that hasn't changed is people's unwillingness to share a double seat. In a world of constant dynamism folk still like plenty of room for their backsides.
